April 29, 2010


~ In order to keep this blog semi-active at the very least, here's some rather old, painful poetry.

~ Loss can make people drink, over-eat, harm themselves, or others, or just waste away. Me? I massacre the English language in a vaguely verse-like form. Oh well, it kept me occupied. I wrote this quite a while back, in late September. It was the first poetry i'd written in years.

Also, this poem. It's all true. every word. I don't think the memory of that crow will ever leave me.

Friday 10:30

When they played Aerosmith

At your funeral

We tried to smile

As your photo

Danced with the vibrations

Of that bloody guitar solo.


We stared and waited

For that same stupid grin

When we’d forgive the big joke

And go back to yours

To act like kids

And whinge about school.


But you made the vicar cry

And we all held it together

For your mother

But when that crow came

And sang to silence

No-one dare breathe.

Year 11. Patto. Football.

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